


Shattered Soul

by Heather Dursley (Keolah)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, Humor, POV First Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keolah/pseuds/Heather%20Dursley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Voldemort tries to kill the infant Harry Potter, something goes wrong, and he finds himself inside the young boy's body instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fall of a Dark Lord

Tonight shall herald the completion of long planning. My final Horcrux shall be made, using the death of the child prophesied to vanquish me as the catalyst. With this, true immortality and untold power will be within my grasp at last! No one will be able to stand against me, not even that old fool, Dumbledore.

"What other defenses do they have besides the Fidelius Charm?" I ask Wormtail.

"Basic wards, my lord," Wormtail replies subserviently. "Nothing more."

"Overconfident fools," I scoff. "Relying solely upon the Fidelius to protect them, it seems."

I make certain that everything is prepared for the ritual. Tonight is the strongest night of the year for dark magic, and I must be ready to perform the Horcrux ritual at the hour of midnight after slaying the Potter brat. Everything must be timed perfectly.

I Apparate to Godric's Hollow and stride boldly down the road to the house Wormtail told me of. The house stands before me, no longer concealed by the Fidelius Charm. It's a tiny cottage, unbefitting of a pureblood like James Potter. It baffles me that he chooses to live here rather than in his ancestral mansion.

I set up Anti-Apparation wards around the building to make certain that there will be no escape this night, and then set about to breaking through the defenses. The simple protections fall easily before my might, and I step into the hovel. James Potter springs to his feet, throwing aside in a panic the book that he had been reading. Completely unprepared!

"That traitorous rat," James snarls quietly, but he doesn't whip out a wand. "Lily, take Harry and go!" he yells. "It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Did this fool actually let his guard down so badly that he doesn't even have his wand on him? He tries to put up a fight, but without a wand it's so pathetic as to not even be worth mentioning.

I raise my yew wand and point it at James Potter, and intone the words, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

A flash of green light flies out from the tip of my wand. James attempts to dodge, but I'm too close, too fast, too late. The Killing Curse strikes him, knocking the life right out of him in an instant. The body collapses to the ground, eyes forever frozen in a look of stubborn defiance. It would have been nice to see fear in his last moments, but this is just as amusing, I think. They can be as defiant as they like, but it will not save them when the Dark Lord comes for them.

I stalk purposefully up the stairs. Potter's Mudblood wife must be around here somewhere as well, and the prophesied brat is probably in a nursery upstairs.

Lily Potter is in the nursery, standing determinedly in between me and the crib. There's no wand in her hand, either. What kind of worthless wizards are these, that they can't even seek to defend themselves? Foolish. Complacent.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!!" Lily cries.

I sigh inwardly at the promise I'd made to Severus Snape. "Stand aside, you silly girl," I tell her firmly. "Stand aside now."

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead..." Lily pleads.

I have to laugh at that. Why would I ever agree to such a thing, when it is the child who is a potential threat to me, not the mother? I take another step forward, pointing my wand toward her and narrowing my eyes in warning. I don't know why Severus was so fascinated with this girl. He could have asked for anything as a boon in return for delivering the prophecy to me. Instead, he asks for something that is almost certainly impossible.

"I will not warn you again," I say. "This is your last chance. Stand aside, or I will destroy you."

"Not Harry!" Lily screams. "Please... have mercy... have mercy."

" _Avada Kedavra!_ " I cast. 

Green light strikes Lily Potter, and she falls to the ground, motionless. I distantly remember when casting this curse gave me some sort of pleasure, a thrill at the dark energies, the power at my grasp. Now, it is merely a tool to me. Now, I am cold, dispassionate, completely in control.

I step forward and look down into the crib. The year-old boy looks up at me with bright green eyes from beneath a mop of tousled black hair, scared, terrified, but too young to understand what is going on. This is the prophesied child? This is the one who would vanquish me? He does not look like much now. And he will never get the chance to do so.

I murmur a few arcane words in a long-forgotten tongue, and make gestures with the fingers of my free hand. The Horcrux ritual is ancient, long predating the use of wands by wizards. This part, however, is only to prepare my soul for the creation of the Horcrux. I will need to perform the binding of a soul fragment to a physical object later tonight.

Everything is ready. Carefully, I raise my yew wand and point it toward the small boy in front of me, and cast the Unforgivable Curse for the third time tonight. " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Green light floods my vision. Pain sears through me, as though it's tearing me apart from the inside out. Creating a Horcrux has never been _this_ painful. Immediately, I know something is wrong. But it's too late to do anything about it. A massive explosion rocks the world, and darkness envelops me.

After a moment or an eternity, I wake, blinking. I'm laying on my back staring up at the starry sky through a hole in the roof.

I must have been knocked out by the spell backfiring somehow. Had the Potters laid some sort of defenses that I did not know about? Perhaps Dumbledore had intended to sacrifice them in order to lure me into a trap of some sort. I should have known that it seemed too easy.

Trying to rise to my feet, I stagger clumsily, and realize that something is horribly wrong. I look down at myself, my weak, frail body, and see tiny, chubby limbs. I'm laying in the crib, not on the floor like I had first assumed.

Oh, bugger.


	2. Life with Muggles

I can't believe this. How did this happen? How did I wind up in the body of the baby Harry Potter? This is terrible!

I was sure that I'd performed the Horcrux ritual correctly. I've done it many times before, after all. Too many, perhaps. Is there some fundamental law of magic that no one has before run across that prevents a soul from being split seven times? No one has ever attempted to make six Horcruxes before, after all.

Weakly, I climb to my feet, holding onto the railing of the crib to steady myself as I look out at the nursery. There's no sign of my body. Whatever backlash occurred here, I appear to have been completely vaporized. Scorch marks mar the floor, and the roof and part of the side of the building have been completely blown away.

I let out a tiny sigh as I slump back down into the crib. All that planning, all that work, all for nothing. No one would ever serve a baby, even if I could convince them of my identity. I would no longer be the almighty Dark Lord, more than a mere man. I'd be a laughingstock.

Footsteps, someone coming into the nursery. I peer out between the bars of the crib, wondering if it's one of the Potters' allies coming to investigate. But no, it's Wormtail, muttering to himself.

I try to call out his name. But his nickname only comes out as "Waaa!" and his real name turns into "Papa!" and it just sounds like I'm crying and screaming for my parents. Cursed infant mouths, am I going to need to relearn to talk all over again?

Wormtail picks up my wand. How dare he touch what is mine! I continue to scream at him incoherently as he flees from the scene. I curl up in a ball and clench my eyes shut. Not only am I trapped in this tiny, pathetic body, but I'm without my wand as well?

The next visitor takes me away from the crib and tries to comfort me. I flail at him impotently with stubby, weak fists, screaming wordlessly at the top of my lungs. His only response is to comfort me even more and cast a sleep spell upon me.

* * *

I wake to find myself in a basket on a doorstep. What nonsense is this? Who seriously _does_ that, anyway? And here I am, an orphan yet again. Well, at least I can hope to have been left with some of James Potter's wizard relatives, even if I think leaving me on the doorstep was a bit much. Couldn't they have just taken the Floo or flown in, and handed me off in person to make sure I arrived safely? This is a little insulting.

Not long after I wake, the door opens to reveal a blonde woman with entirely too much neck. She frowns down at me and picks up the note that had been left with me, and reads it with a scowl.

"What is it, Petunia?" a man's voice emerges from further in the house.

Petunia takes up the basket and hauls me into the house. "My sister is dead..." she says hollowly.

Her sister? Wait, Lily was a Mudblood. Did those fools seriously just leave me with _Muggles_? This is _more_ than a little insulting!

"And this is their son?" says the obese man, coming over to peer at me like I'm some sort of insect. "A freak, like his parents?"

I'm not a freak! I'm the greatest wizard who ever lived! I am the Dark Lord! I flail and scream, pounding at the enormous Muggle with my tiny fists.

"What, don't like being called a freak? Then don't be one! I'm sure we can stifle the abnormality from you if we start early enough!"

Soon enough, the horrible Muggles lock me away in the dark, where I scream myself to sleep without hardly any food.

The indignity of this all. Bad enough that I'm trapped in the body of a young child, but did they have to give me into the care of Muggles who hate me as well? I can only suspect that Dumbledore must have realized what happened somehow and is trying to teach me some sort of lesson. They would never have done this to the real Harry Potter, I'm sure.

I'm calmer when I wake. I need to think about this. Screaming and crying like the baby I appear to be won't get me out of this situation.

While I don't have my wand, maybe I can still manage some sort of lesser magic. Even a simple Unlocking Charm to get me out of this dark, miserable little cupboard. I crawl over to the door and try to call forth any amount of magical energy. I should be good enough at magic that I can manage first year charms with nothing but force of will. I shouldn't need a wand, or gestures, or incantations.

Nothing happens, however. I don't feel even the slightest spark of magic working within me. Desperately wishing to have _not_ wound up becoming a Squib because of that terrible accident, I try to work my chubby little fingers into gestures, and to make my clumsy infant tongue speak the incantation. It's no use, however. Magic will not come to me.

I slump to the floor and let out a heavy sigh. This isn't working. No, I must stay calm. I must think reasonably. It's entirely possible that I'm merely working off of the undeveloped magical core of a one-year-old child. Especially if only a fragment of myself wound up becoming trapped within this body.

What if, when I attempted to kill the baby to make a Horcrux, my soul shattered instead? I have to chuckle a little in spite of myself at the thought of every piece of baby furniture in that nursery becoming a Horcrux, as unlikely as that outcome might be.

But, if there's only a sliver of me within this child, that would explain why I do not have my full magical abilities. If this were a more normal case of possession, I should still be able to use magic, shouldn't I? I'm in the body of a boy who should grow into a perfectly capable wizard eventually, at least.

There's no sign of Harry's original personality in my mind, I don't think. Most likely, the infant's undeveloped mind was overpowered by the personality of a decades-old wizard. So long as I'm in control of this body, there's no way that the original Harry Potter is likely to emerge, either. I've effectively become Harry Potter.

If they don't realize that the mind in Harry Potter's body is no longer his own, perhaps I can use this to my advantage. It would be the perfect cover. More than perfect. And whatever credit I might give Dumbledore, I don't really think that he realizes what actually happened, as much as I might curse him for putting me in this position. I'm sure that he thought he was doing whatever foolish thing he thought best in giving Harry to his mother's relatives. He always did have a thing for Muggles, after all.

That's settled, then. I'll be the ideal child, and won't give any hint toward my true identity. And then, once this body grows up, I'll be in the perfect position to reclaim all I've lost, and more.

* * *

My initial assessment of my situation is, however, dependent upon my ability to not constantly want to blow up "Uncle" Vernon.

"Hurry it up, boy!" roars Vernon. "You don't want Dudders to starve to death while you're taking your sweet time about cooking, do you?"

Am I nothing more than a common house-elf here? Setting me to such menial chores as cooking and cleaning? No, I must stay calm. I take a deep breath. It's not like I can really do anything to him at the moment, anyway.

I serve up the fruits of my labors to the group of Muggles who do not really need anymore food. Vernon tosses me a slice of stale bread and sends me to the cupboard. The smells of freshly cooked bacon tugs at my nose, and my stomach rumbles, but I don't get to eat a scrap of it.

I swear, when I grow up again, I am going to murder this family just like I did my original Muggle family.

* * *

The Muggle children in the neighborhood are frequently not any better. Most of them just avoid me for fear of retribution from Dudley's gang, but Dudley and his friends make it something of a sport to torment me whenever they can.

"There he is!" yells Piers Polkiss.

I scramble away, ducking behind the play structure. I'm small, undersized. Maybe I can squeeze into someplace that these little thugs can't reach.

"Get him! Get him!"

I lodge myself under the slide as far as I can go, but it's no use. They keep reaching in with their filthy Muggle hands and grabbing at me. I can't escape. I have to get away. They'll hurt me. They're just Muggles, but they'll still hurt me. I'm weak and vulnerable. I clench my eyes shut and put my arms over my face. Damn it all!

Sudden dizziness. A squeezing sensation. Warm sunlight on my eyelids. I open my eyes, and then blink. I'm no longer under the play structure, but on the roof of the nearby school building.

A surge of joy rushes through me, and I can't help but smile broadly. This is wonderful! I Apparated! I'm not a Squib! I'm genuinely happier than I can remember being in a long, long time. Sure, it was accidental magic, but it's still a clear sign that there is a functional and potent magical core within me.

I lay back on the roof and sprawl out in the sun, laughing aloud. I'll worry about how to get down again in a bit.

Dudley's gang gives up on looking for me after a while, and they go home. Perhaps Vernon will think that I've just vanished for good. Probably hopes I will, at any rate.

I could try to escape. I could make my way to the Leaky Cauldron, on foot if need be. I could try to contact a magical family. And yet, I shouldn't. There's no reason why Harry Potter should know about these things. Questions would be asked. Any chance of keeping up my ruse would be blown. I've got to go back to Privet Drive.

When I creep back into the house that evening, Vernon is livid, his fat face red as a tomato. "I heard about what you did, you little freak! Into your cupboard, right now! And no supper for you!"

"Does that mean you don't want me to cook?" I ask.

Vernon seems to seriously think about that for several moments. "Cook first, and then into your cupboard! And don't even think about filching a single crumb! And extra chores for you tomorrow for your cheek!"

I can't help myself. I giggle aloud. Vernon backhands me for the trouble, and I stagger back. I don't really care at the moment, however. I'm happy. I have a future. And not even these miserable Muggles can get me down today.

"Get to work, freak!" Vernon growls.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," I say cheerfully, heading into the kitchen to get started on a meal I won't be able to eat. Even so, I'm finding it hard to stay angry at the world right now.

* * *

"Mrs. Figg just called," Petunia says. "She broke her leg. Tripped over one of her cats. She won't be able to take the boy today."

Vernon grunts. "No help for it, then." He turns to me and says, "You're going to be coming with us today. You're going to behave yourself and be quiet. I'm not going to let your freakishness ruin Dudders' birthday, you hear me?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," I assure him. "I'll be good."

"See to it that you do, boy," Vernon says. "Or there will be no supper for you tonight!"

My neighbor, Arabella Figg, is a Squib who raises part-Kneazles. She probably doesn't know that I've realized that, however, and I'm not about to let on. There's no reason that Harry Potter should know that. Besides, Dumbledore probably assigned her to the location to keep an eye on me, and if she's working for Dumbledore, I _definitely_ don't want to let my guard down and let on that I know more than I should.

I don't speak a word as get in the back of Vernon's car and we drive to the zoo. I'm just happy at the chance to get out and go someplace new. When did I ever become so content with such simple things?

While Dudley is busy looking at the animals, I wander off to see the snakes. I can hear them, hissing to one another, talking about the humans that are moving around them.

I glance about to make sure no one is looking or close enough to hear, and hiss quietly, "Hello, snakes."

"Hello, human," replies the boa constrictor.

I beam broadly at that. I'm still a Parselmouth. I'd been a little concerned about that as well, as I was not certain if the ability would carry on in a different body, and I hadn't really had a chance to check before.

"I'm afraid I can't stay and chat for long," I hiss. "I just wanted to say hello. I'm sure it must be pretty boring for you in here."

"Sometimes," the snake replies. "But it's amusing watching the humans milling about, and they feed us well. It _is_ annoying when they rap on the glass, though."

"I would imagine," I say quietly.

Dudley comes up behind me, and says, "Were you just _hissing_ at that snake?"

I blanch for a moment, but try to keep my expression cool. "What, haven't you ever made animal noises at an animal before?"

Dudley looks thoughtful, a great effort for him I'm sure, and then says, "Maybe that'll get a reaction out of them. These lizards are so boring and not even doing anything." He puts his hands beside his head and makes a face, and lets out an exaggerated hiss.

"That human is so silly," the boa constrictor comments, staring at Dudley in amusement.

"Well, you've certainly got its attention, at least," Piers says.

"How about we go make noises at the gorillas instead?" I suggest. "They're probably much more interesting, anyway."

I just want to see Dudley making a fool of himself acting like a gorilla. Maybe if I'm fortunate, the apes will get fed up with him and fling dung in his general direction, too.

We head over to the gorilla house, and I proceed to make wild gestures and say "Ook, ook!" Oh, if my followers could only see me now. A Dark Lord, acting like an ape. I'm so glad that even if any of them cared about the Muggle world, they have no idea who I am now anyway.

"Ook, ook, ook!" Dudley says, taking my cue and waving his arms about.

I step back and can't help but snicker at that. After a few moments, Dudley realizes that he's being mocked, and spins around to glare at me.

"You're just making fun of me, aren't you?" Dudley snaps.

"What?" I reply, smoothing my face with a concerted effort. "No, of course not."

"You are too, you little freak!" Piers says.

The two of them come after me and start to rough me up, not caring about being in a public place. I really don't need another burst of accidental magic right now, damn it.

"I'm sorry!" I say, covering my head with my arms. "I didn't mean anything!"

They end up picking me up and stuffing me into a rubbish bin, and walking away laughing. Ugh, this is disgusting. I quietly wait a few minutes until they've walked away before climbing out, however. I'm going to get blamed for being filthy, too.

No matter. I sigh, but I'm not going to let this get me down. I'm a Parselmouth, I'm a wizard, and with any luck, I'll be getting a Hogwarts letter soon. I keep telling myself these things, like a mantra to ward off misfortune.


	3. Preparing for Hogwarts

It comes shortly before my eleventh birthday. No, I should say, _Harry's_ eleventh birthday. It grates on me to think that, after being stuck in this body for almost ten years, I've started to think of it as _my_ body and _my_ life. But why shouldn't I? It's mine now, and it's what I have. It certainly beats being dead, after all.

Anyway, it's one morning in July that my Hogwarts letter arrives. _Mine_ , not Harry's. Because this is _my_ life, now. I recognize the fancy parchment for what it is at once, even though I didn't actually receive one before, in my last life. That old goat Dumbledore had come to see me personally instead, oh, and _that_ went smashingly.

"Dad, Harry's got something!" Dudley cries, pointing accusingly toward me. There are times when I despise these horrible Muggles more than others.

Vernon's eyes light up in rage and panic as he sees the parchment in my hands. He knows exactly what he's looking at here. "Give that here, boy!" he snaps.

"No way!" I cry, clutching the letter to me like a lifeline. "This is _my_ letter!"

"No one would want to write to you!" Vernon scoffs. "It's just a prank!" He lunges over and tries to snatch the letter away from me, taking advantage of his greater bulk to attempt to surround me all by himself.

I duck away and scramble beneath his outstretched arm, and make a break for the front door. Dudley blocks my path, his whale-like torso effectively making a brick wall. With a sharp turn, I dart through the kitchen and hit the back door running, fumbling at the handle for a moment to get it open as Vernon thunders behind me.

Out in the back garden, I almost trip over Petunia's plants -- the ones she made _me_ tend to all these years. I laugh aloud as I take in a breath of fresh air. It smells like freedom.

"Boy!" Vernon bellows after me. "Get back here, boy!"

"Not on your life!" I yell. "I'm going to Hogwarts, and I'm _never coming back!_ "

Despite having been underfed, I'm quicker and more athletic than the lumbering walrus. It's not long before Vernon gives up the chase, and I vanish into the bland suburban Muggle jungle. With Vernon out of sight and pretty sure he's not going to run after me on foot, I climb up a tree in Mrs. Figg's back yard to hide. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I open up my Hogwarts letter with shaking hands.

_Dear Mr. Potter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

I breathe out a sigh of relief. Not only have I been accepted to Hogwarts, but not even whatever magic is behind these letters realizes that I'm not precisely Harry Potter. This is most excellent indeed.

In hindsight, I realize that running out from the Dursleys' house like that might not have been the best idea. But really, bugger that. I've put up with those Muggles for long enough. Someday I'm going to return and murder a second Muggle family of mine. But right now, I have other things to worry about. Revenge can wait.

Right now, I need to find a way to get to the Leaky Cauldron. I don't have a wand yet, so I can't just call the Knight Bus, and I didn't think to swipe any pounds from Vernon to procure Muggle transportation. Maybe I should just ask Mrs. Figg? Dumbledore obviously put her here to keep an eye on me, and surely he wants Harry Potter to go to Hogwarts. Worst case scenario is that they send me back to the Dursleys for the remainder of the summer after getting my school supplies, and that's bearable since at least then I would have my wand.

A decision made, I tuck the letter into my pocket and nimbly climb back down the tree. I don't dare circle around to the front door, in case Vernon might think to look for me here. Instead, I knock on the back door.

After a minute or so, Mrs. Figg comes and opens the door. "Oh! Harry? What are you doing here?"

I pull out my Hogwarts letter again and show it to her. "Uncle Vernon went spare when he saw this," I explain. "I don't think he's going to want to drive me to pick up school supplies or even let me send a reply... He was right narked." I pause with feigned uncertainty. "Um... This _is_ real, isn't it? It's not just some prank? He tried to tell me it was a prank, but I didn't think he'd want to get this letter away from me so badly if it were just a prank..."

"Come in, come in," Mrs. Figg says, waving me inside and cutting off my rambling.

I step inside the house, wrinkling up my nose at the scent of cabbage. I very nearly trip over a ginger cat as I follow her down the hallway to the kitchen.

"Here, you just stay here for a moment, help yourself to a snack, and I'll take care of this," Mrs. Figg says, then turns to head off into the sitting room.

As appealing as the thought of food sounds to my empty stomach, I'm nervous and don't trust her enough not to see what she does. I creep along after her and watch from the door to the sitting room.

Mrs. Figg pulls out a small bag that had clearly been hidden very carefully, and tosses a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace. "Hogwarts, Headmaster's office!"

It shouldn't surprise me that she's talking to Dumbledore, but the thought is still enough to make my stomach churn anyway. Or at least it would, if it weren't so hungry. I can't even make out the conversation anyway, so I just decide to return to the kitchen and get that snack she suggested. I pour myself a glass of milk, down half of it in one gulp, then go to make a quick sandwich. I've already finished the sandwich and am halfway through another glass of milk before Mrs. Figg returns.

"I'll be taking you to purchase your school supplies," Mrs. Figg says.

"Really?" I say, brightening immediately. I'd been afraid that Dumbledore would want to deal with me himself, and I don't trust my undeveloped magic against his Legilimency. "So this is all real, then? Really real? I'm going to be learning magic?"

"Indeed it is," Mrs. Figg says. "You're a wizard, Harry, and I'm glad you came to me."

"Well, I figured that if anyone must be a witch, it would be you," I say.

"Oh, I'm not actually a witch, myself. I'm a Squib," Mrs. Figg explains. "That's someone who is born with magical blood but can't use it to cast spells or anything."

"Oh," I say. "That's too bad." I frown. "It must be awful to know about magic but not be able to use it." I spent enough time being worried that I might be a Squib myself, even if I can't bring myself to feel genuinely sympathetic toward Mrs. Figg. She must have had some idea what the Dursleys were like, and yet nothing was done about my situation.

"It's not so bad as all that," Mrs. Figg says. "Here, finish up your milk and we'll get going."

I drain my glass and follow her out front, and we climb into her car. It's a hideous, boxy contraption painted in burgundy, and must be at least ten years old. I don't remember ever seeing her with another car.

"Where are we heading?" I ask.

"Diagon Alley," Mrs. Figg replies. "It's in London, so we're in for a bit of a drive."

I make a face. "You're not going to take me back to the Dursleys when we're done, are you?"

Mrs. Figg is quiet for a long moment before replying, "Albus -- Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster, that is -- still thinks you should return there. And I'll take you there to pick up any possessions you might have left there. However, you're welcome to stay at my place for the remainder of the summer."

"There's nothing at the Dursleys' that I'd want," I reply a little bitterly, even as my estimation of the Squib goes up a notch. "But thanks."

"You may need to return next year, but hopefully by that point Vernon will have cooled his head down a bit," Mrs. Figg says.

"I don't want to go back there _ever_ ," I reply firmly.

In some ways, they weren't as bad as the orphanage I grew up in as Tom Riddle. And in other ways, they were far worse. Still, now that I'm in contact with the wizarding world again, I can make other arrangements. I don't need to put up with this any longer, no matter what the old man says. I don't need to put up with child abuse in order to keep my cover. I'm sure, even if Harry's personality hadn't been overwritten by a fragment of the Dark Lord, even he wouldn't be able to tolerate one more moment of that than necessary.

"If it had been up to me, you'd never have been left in their care in the first place," Mrs. Figg says. "But Dumbledore said it was necessary, for your own safety. Protective measures had been taken, you see. I don't know all the details, I'm afraid. And I apologize for how unimpressive your visits with me have been. I feared that if the Dursleys thought you enjoyed your time with me, that they would not allow you to come any longer."

I glare daggers at her and clench my fists so hard they hurt. There's a million things I could say here, but I bite my lower lip to keep myself from saying any of them. I'm angry enough as it is that the windows rattle. She knew, and it would not surprise me that she knew everything, but she went along with this all just because Dumbledore said so.

"I know you're angry, and you've a right to be," Mrs. Figg says. "But Dumbledore's a good man, and he never does anything without good reason. And while that may not have been the most loving environment, you were never in any real danger. You were safe, and fed, and clothed--"

"Stop," I say sharply. "Just stop. I don't want to talk about this." I take a deep breath in an attempt to still my rage. "Tell me about Diagon Alley."

"Of course, Harry," she says, and starts telling me things I already know. I only half listen to her, but it helps me to calm down to think about the future rather than dwell on the past and what's been done and done to me.

We arrive at the Leaky Cauldron. Mrs. Figg parks the car nearby, and I follow her inside.

"Good day, Tom," Mrs. Figg says. I start in surprise before realizing that she's addressing the barkeep, not me.

"Ah, Arabella," the bartender says. "Fancy seeing you here today. And who's your young charge?"

"A neighbor boy, just starting at Hogwarts this year," Mrs. Figg says. "He doesn't have his wand yet, so could you open the way into the alley for us, Tom?"

"Certainly, Arabella," he replies, gesturing to us and leading us back to the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron. "Raised by Muggles, I take it? Here, watch what I do." He brings out his wand and taps a series of bricks. "Just tap these bricks in this order, and, there we go!" The wall shifts into an archway leading into Diagon Alley.

I try to feign awe and wonder suitable for a boy who has never really seen the magical world before, but I'm not sure how well I do at it. While everything is familiar to me, it's certainly a relief to be here again. I hope that's enough.

"Let's stop by the bank first and get you some money," Mrs. Figg says. "Albus gave me your vault key. Your parents left you with some money, I understand."

We head into Gringotts and get that squared away in due order, one rough cart ride later. Mrs. Figg declines to come down with me and waits in the lobby for us to return. At least the Potters weren't poor. I'll be able to readily afford whatever I might want, within reason.

"All set?" Mrs. Figg says. "Let's get you some new clothes, next. Ones that actually fit you and will be suitable to wear at school and amongst wizards."

She stops outside the tailor to chat with a woman wearing a hideous vulture hat, and waves me inside. There's another student being fitted for robes at the moment, a blond boy a little on the chubby side, although Dudley would make him look like a stork.

"Er, hello," says the boy when he sees me. "You getting ready for Hogwarts, too?"

"Yeah," I reply. "First year."

"Me too." He pauses for a moment. "I'm Neville Longbottom, by the way." Ah, so he's the other child who could have been the subject of that prophecy. "Do you know what house you'll be in?"

There's a good question. Will that damned hat want to put me in Slytherin again? Will I be able to con it into giving me Ravenclaw instead? Ravenclaw would be good. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "I'm hoping for Ravenclaw. My parents were both in Gryffindor, though."

"I don't think I'd be smart enough for Ravenclaw," Neville says. "A lot of my family was in Gryffindor, but I don't think I'm brave enough, either. I'll probably wind up in Hufflepuff."

"Nothing wrong with Hufflepuff," I assure him hollowly.

"Imagine if I wound up in Slytherin!" he goes on. "What would my family think? What if I'm not loyal and hardworking enough for Hufflepuff, and I wind up in Slytherin just because I'm pureblood and don't belong anywhere else? That would be horrible!"

It takes all my will to keep from clenching my fists in irritation. "Neville," I say a little too forcefully. "Relax. You'll be a credit to any house you wind up in." I'm grating out empty platitudes I don't really feel.

Neville is shaking his head. "I'm very nearly a Squib. My family was worried for the longest time that I might not be magical at all. I was so happy when I got my Hogwarts letter..."

 _This_ could have been my prophesied vanquisher? A scared young boy with little magical ability? No, I'm sure I sought to murder the correct child after all. But what if I didn't? Harry Potter's not exactly in any position to do any vanquishing, unless you'd consider that he already sort of vanquished me. I don't know if that even really counts.

I'm not going to take any foolish chances this time around. If there's even the slightest chance that Neville Longbottom might have the power to vanquish me, then I'll make sure that he uses that power to my benefit instead. I'll take advantage of this opportunity that I never would have had otherwise. I'm going to become his best friend.

"I don't know if we'll be in the same house, but I'd like to be your friend, anyway," I say.

"Really?" Neville says, immediately brightening. "That's great! Oh, er, I didn't catch your name."

"Harry Potter," I reply, holding out my hand to shake his.

"That's great," Neville says. "I hear our parents were friends, too."

"Yeah, but we're not our parents, as great as they were," I say, forcing a smile at him. "We've got to be our own people."

Once we're done in the tailor, we head out to where Mrs. Figg and Neville's grandmother were chatting and make some quick introductions before deciding to continue our shopping together. We pick up books and miscellaneous supplies for Potions and Astronomy, and wind up outside of Ollivander's wand shop.

"Oh, Neville doesn't need a wand," Mrs. Longbottom says. "His father's wand will suit him just fine."

"Well, I do, and I want him to come and watch!" I say. "He's the first friend I ever had! Come on, Neville!"

I grab his hand and practically drag him inside with exaggerated enthusiasm. Only slightly exaggerated, though. I've been anticipating this moment all day, when I will finally have a wand in my hand again and reclaim some portion of my power and my birthright. The old women decide to wait outside as the two of us come into the little shop packed with rows upon rows of boxes containing wands of all sorts.

"Ah, another couple of young customers," says the old man, coming into view to look us over.

"I've already got a wand," Neville says sheepishly. "I'm just here for, er, moral support, I guess."

"Do you, now?" Ollivander says. "I don't recall selling one to you, and I remember ever wand I've ever sold."

I shift uneasily, wondering if he might realize that there's something strange about me.

"It belonged to my father," Neville says, pulling out the wand to show him.

"I see," Ollivander says, scowling. "Let us see, then. Give it a swish." Neville does as bidden, and the wand barely responds. Ollivander shakes his head. "No, no, this won't do at all. This wand is a very poor match for you, and it has little reason to give you its allegiance, since its proper owner is still alive and you did not win it from him in a duel."

Neville deflates, and his shoulders slump. "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to live up to my father..."

"It has nothing to do with living up to anyone," Ollivander says. "You simply have a different flavor of magic than him. There's no shame in that." He shakes his head. "I keep trying to tell people that, but families still pass down poorly matched wands to their children out of tradition. Let's find you a proper wand."

"Yes, sir," Neville says quietly.

I wonder what happened to Neville's father. If he's still alive, why isn't he using his wand? Did he get another one, or did something happen to him at some point?

"And as for you..." Ollivander turns to examine me. "Harry Potter. I'm sorry to say that I sold you the wand that gave you that scar."

"There's no need to be sorry," I reply. Especially not when it was _me_ that he'd sold that wand to. I relax a little as I realize that he doesn't recognize anything unusual about me.

Ollivander chuckles softly. "You are gracious, lad. Let's see about getting you a wand as well."

I and Neville try out a number of wands, leaving him with a cherry and unicorn hair wand, and for me, one of holly and phoenix feather that has Ollivander giving me an odd look.

"Most interesting," Ollivander says.

"What is?" I wonder.

"The phoenix whose feather is in this wand only gave two feathers," Ollivander says, pointing to my forehead. "Its brother was the one who gave you that scar. Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches."

My skin goes cold and my heart skips a beat. I drop the wand and recoil away from it like I imagine most people would a snake. I was afraid of something like this, that the game would be given away by something so simple as the flavor of my magic being so similar to Voldemort's.

Then Neville's hand is on my shoulder, gently squeezing. "It's okay, Harry. The wand's not going to hurt you. Besides, what does that even mean, anyway? How many people have hairs from the same unicorn, I wonder?"

Ollivander glances at him, but doesn't answer or clarify his previous words. "You could do great things with this wand. After all, its brother's master did great things, as well. Terrible things, but great."

"That's supposed to be reassuring?" I sputter, although slowly relaxing as I realize that they mistook the reason I was panicking about it. I take a deep breath and pick up the wand again. It does feel right in my hand. Not quite the same as my old wand, but then I'm not quite the same as I was then, either, and this new wand is different enough to compensate for that.

"The wands will be seven galleons each," Ollivander says.

"Here, I'll pay for your wand," I offer to Neville. "Call it a birthday present."

"How'd you know my birthday's tomorrow?" Neville asks.

"Because the day after that is _my_ birthday," I say.

"Well, in that case, I'll pay for _your_ wand as a birthday present, too," Neville says.

I snort softly. "Okay, that's completely pointless." I snicker in amusement. "How about we just call it even and get each other something else?"

"Sounds like a plan," Neville says with a grin.

We head outside, and Mrs. Longbottom quickly spots Neville's new wand, despite his efforts at hiding it or at least making it a little less conspicuous. "Did you buy yourself a new wand? Neville! Was your father's wand not good enough?"

Neville stammers for a moment and looks at the ground, unable to formulate a response.

I step in between them. "Ollivander said his father's wand wouldn't work very well for him since their magic is too different."

Mrs. Longbottom hmphs. "I don't see why that should be so. He's his father's son, after all."

"I expect Ollivander knows what he's talking about," I say. "I'm sure he knows all there is to know about wands!"

Mrs. Longbottom shakes her head, and goes over to take Neville's new wand. "I'll just return this. You just wait right here." She glances to Mrs. Figg and says, "I'm sorry for this trouble, Arabella." Then she goes into the shop.

Neville looks like he's about to break down in tears.

I pat Neville on the shoulder and say, "Don't worry, Neville. I'll take care of this."

Leaving Neville with Mrs. Figg, I step back into the wand shop. Mrs. Longbottom is already started arguing with Ollivander, who is trying, and failing, to explain things to her. I'm getting fairly annoyed with her by this point, which boils up as pent-up rage.

"Mrs. Longbottom," I snap. "Return Neville's wand to him at once."

"How dare you speak to me this way!" Mrs. Longbottom says.

"How dare _you_ stifle your grandson's potential by attempting to force upon him a magical focus which is not properly attuned to him," I retort. "And for what? A misguided sense of tradition? Would you force him to wear his father's shoes, even if they're much too big for him and he keeps stumbling over his own feet?"

"He'll grow into them, then!" Mrs. Longbottom argues.

"He'll never grow into that wand," I say. "Magic doesn't work that way. Cease this foolishness at once and allow Neville to become a man on his own terms."

Mrs. Longbottom is looking at me strangely, and I realize too late that I momentarily lost control, and the act slipped. I think I was using words no eleven year old would generally be using.

"You are an honorable young man, standing up for your friend like that," Mrs. Longbottom says. "However, you could stand to learn some respect for your elders." She shakes her head with a bemused smirk. "Still, I should not expect any differently. Neville could certainly use you as a friend -- and an example to follow."

She goes over to return the cherry wand to Neville, who was standing in the doorway watching the whole thing, and brushes past him to go outside.

Neville comes over to me and whispers, "That was _so cool_. I can't believe you stood up to Gran for me. _Nobody_ stands up to Gran! Thank you!"

We head back outside, and split up to finish up with our shopping and go looking for birthday presents for one another. I'm still on edge, though. My first day back in the wizarding world, and I very nearly blew my cover more than once, and only people completely misinterpreting my actions saved me from unfortunate scrutiny. I'm going to need to watch that.

Then, I realize I have more immediate concerns as I look out at the shops in Diagon Alley and draw a blank. "I have no idea what to buy Neville for his birthday. I've never bought anyone a birthday present before."

Mrs. Figg smiles faintly at me. "I think you've already given him a pretty big one. But let's see what sort of token we can find. Don't kids always like sweets? I'm sure he wouldn't mind a box of chocolate frogs..."


	4. Riding the Train

I wake up on the morning of my birthday to the sound of an owl tapping at the window to the room I'm staying in at Mrs. Figg's house. Groggily, I crawl out of bed and open the window, and a white snowy owl flutters inside as though it owns the place. There's a letter tied to its leg, and I retrieve it and unfold it to read, ignoring the owl who looks at me with brash temerity as if expecting some sort of treats.

_Dear Harry, Happy birthday! Thanks for the chocolate frogs. It was great to meet you the other day. I hope we'll be good friends at Hogwarts. Maybe we'll be in Hufflepuff or Gryffindor together. But wherever we end up, I hope we stay friends. I hear you don't have your own owl, so this pretty girl is for you! I thought of you when I saw her. I hope you like her. I'll see you at Hogwarts. Sincerely, Neville_

I look up from the parchment and examine the snowy owl. "So, you're mine, then?"

The owl makes a soft trilling sound and looks at me so imperiously that I have to smile. I give her a little scratch and go to find some treats for her, absently trying to think of a name to call her.

Mrs. Figg has turned out to be a good deal more bearable than I had previously given her credit for. She seems to be taking this opportunity to spent the next month apologizing for the last ten years by practically lavishing comfort upon me. There's even a chocolate cake for my birthday.

I decide to call the owl Hedwig. That sounds like a suitably aristocratic name to call her, and it seems to suit her well enough. With an owl and a wand, I feel like I'm in control of my life again for the first time in years.

I pull out _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ and open it up. A big gray cat promptly hops up onto the desk and sits down in the middle of the open book.

"Shoo!" I say, waving my hand at the damned cat. It stares at me for a moment, then spreads out across the pages. I roll my eyes and grab the cat with both hands, but as I attempt to lift it away from my book, it's as though the incorrigible feline had transformed from solid to liquid in my hands as only a cat could. Grumbling, I eventually manage to free up my book and snatch it up off the desk.

It's not like I even really need the refresher, but it will help to run over which spells are actually taught in first year, so that I don't accidentally use something above my grade level. I really hope I wind up in Ravenclaw. At least that will give a good excuse for knowing more than I ought to, and for any sesquipedalian loquaciousness that might slip inadvertently.

It rankles me that I'm not going to be able to use magic outside of school. However, I haven't actually been _told_ that yet, and I'm reasonably certain that they don't actually check until they send students home after first year. I can take the opportunity to test out my magic and make sure that everything still seems to be working properly, even if I'm stuck in a body with its magic still developing. I briefly consider trying this out by hexing a cat, but decide against it.

Book in one hand, I pull out my wand into the other hand with a flourish. The moment of truth... " _Lumos!_ " The tip of the wand lights up obediently, shining brightly and steadily.

I can't help but smile. My magic is strong and stable. My wand is an excellent match. I will be powerful again.

I will rule over this land, and my opponents will have no idea until it is far too late to stop me.

"Harry?" Mrs. Figg says, poking her head into the room. "Oh, you really shouldn't be using magic outside of school."

"Aww," I say, lowering my wand, still lit up like a small sun. "But how else am I going to practice? I'm sure all the other kids are gonna be way ahead of me!"

"They won't have been allowed to use magic yet, either," Mrs. Figg assures me.

My shoulders slump. "I just wanted to see myself do magic. Really, real magic. Nobody said I wasn't supposed to do it yet." I don't need to feign disappointment too much. I'd only even gotten to test one spell before she caught me, after all.

"Yes, and it's very good," Mrs. Figg says. "Don't worry. You're not going to be punished for it, this time. Now, put out that light."

I make a show of looking up the counter spell, and say " _Nox_." The light on my wand winks out, and I set it aside for now. I'll be content with the demonstration, for the moment.

* * *

Mrs. Figg drops me off at King's Cross Station on September 1st, and I head through the barrier to the Hogwarts Express. I can't help but be excited, much as I find it hard to believe that I'm actually looking forward to going through school again. All things considered, though, it'll have to be better than the first time. I was believed to be a Mudblood at first, and in Slytherin, so things were... unpleasant at times. No need to think about that now, though. In a way, this is a second chance, and I think I'm going to enjoy my second round through Hogwarts.

I and Neville exchanged letters a few times over the summer, so I'm hoping to find him on the train and sit with him. I can be charming when I want to be, and befriending Neville isn't such a burden.

"There you are, Harry!" Neville says, intercepting me on the platform. "Can you help me look for my toad? He's gone missing again."

I bite my lower lip. Toads are only good for potions ingredients and sitting on chicken eggs. But I'm supposed to be trying to be Neville's friend, so I can't say that.

"Oh, here he is," Mrs. Longbottom says, retrieving the amphibian from behind a trolley. "Take care not to lose him again!"

"Trevor!" Neville says, grinning and taking the toad in hand.

"Better hurry and get on the train, boys," Mrs. Longbottom says, making a shooing motion. "Be sure to write!"

We climb aboard the train and find an empty compartment to settle into. I keep a close eye on the toad along the way, making sure it doesn't make another escape. I'm practically bouncing off the walls in anticipation before the train even gets moving, like the child I appear to be. So it's undignified, but to anyone's glance, I'm an eleven year old boy, so it's good cover, right? Yeah, it's just an act for cover, really. I'm just getting into character, so to speak.

As the train speeds along toward Hogwarts, the compartment doors open and a bushy-haired girl bearing a toad pokes her head in. "Excuse me. Does this toad belong to either of you?"

"Trevor!" Neville says, taking the toad back from her. "Thanks for finding him. I didn't even realize he'd gotten away again."

Bugger, I'd been too busy bouncing and forgot about that stupid toad.

The girl glances at me, and her eyes widen as they come to rest on my forehead. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," I reply.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she says, inviting herself in and taking a seat. "I've read all about you." She proceeds to rattle off a list of books I haven't bothered to look at. She certainly seems enthusiastic, although judging by her name, she likely has a Muggle father or grandfather. I listen to her babbling with growing impatience.

"Uh-huh, mhmmm," I murmur, my attention wandering to the window and starting to wish I could just Crucio her to shut her up.

"I imagine you know a lot of magic already," Hermione goes on. "I was quite surprised but ever so pleased when I found out I'm a witch, as I am the first in my family to be magical."

So, she's a Mudblood, then. And from what she's saying, apparently one who reads a lot. Doubtless a shoo-in for Ravenclaw. I start to reconsider whether I really want to aim for that house, if I'd be stuck with her. She'd be good for studying, I suppose, but it's not like I'd need to actually study much. Neville is being quiet, trying to listen to her politely as well, but even he seems a little overwhelmed by her enthusiasm.

Mercifully, the compartment doors open again to reveal a blond boy flanked by two stout and not particularly bright goons. They distinctly remind me of Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.

"I hear Harry Potter is in this compartment," probably-Malfoy says.

"Then you heard correctly," I reply coolly.

"The name's Malfoy," the blond boy says. "Draco Malfoy. And this is Crabbe, and Goyle." Can I call them, or what?

"Nice to meet you," I say dryly. "Were you looking for an autograph or something, like this very excited Mu--" I bite my tongue to avoid saying 'Mudblood' in front of Neville. "--Muggleborn here?"

Draco glances over at the girl disdainfully. "Is that the sort of company you're keeping? And who is this?"

"Neville Longbottom," Neville says uneasily.

"Longbottom, huh," Draco says, clucking his tongue. "So you're hanging out with a Mudblood and an almost-Squib blood traitor?" He looks back to me. "You should learn that some wizarding families are better than others. You wouldn't want to make the wrong sort of friends, would you? I can help you with that."

What an insufferable little _prat_! How dare he-- I squelch that train of thought, trying to reason that he's reacting to one he believes to be a descendant of the Potter line, keeping company with those that would not be surprising to see a Potter with, and that he's trying to lure me to the side of the Dark. Maybe I should appreciate his efforts more, if his methods didn't leave something to be desired.

"Malfoy, here's a hint," I say. "If you want to try to get into someone's good graces, don't open by insulting their company."

Draco snorts softly. "Well, maybe that company deserves to be insulted."

"Hey!" Hermione protests. "What did I ever do to you?"

"See, that's exactly what I mean," I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. "I'm sure your father would know who it is prudent to insult and when. However, when trying to make allies, better to hold off on the insults."

Draco shifts uneasily at the mention of his father and reassesses me with a thoughtful frown.

"Now," I say. "I'll bet galleons to cauldron cakes that Neville here will become a far better wizard than Crabbe, and Hermione here has far more in her head than Goyle."

Even as I say it, I can hardly believe I'm defending the Mudblood, and it's not even that I'm just trying to stay in character, either. Draco's appearance, along with members of two of the _stupidest_ pureblood families I've ever had the displeasure of knowing, made me wonder if I hadn't gone recruiting the wrong crowd to begin with. All they had going for them was old money, and while finances are a good thing to have on hand, perhaps I could have gone about things in another way.

"I still think you're making a mistake," Draco says.

"And I think you should apologize to my _friends_ and start this conversation over if you want to get on my good side," I reply.

"Me? Apologize to _them_?" Draco sputters. "I think not."

"Then you will kindly leave this compartment," I say darkly.

"You'll regret crossing me, Potter," Draco says.

"I didn't cross you, I defended my friends," I say. "When I cross you, you'll know it."

Draco storms out of the compartment in a huff without another word. Maybe antagonizing him was a bad idea, but I know I can get the pureblood families behind me again with merely an indication that I'm their lord. It's the others that I will need to work at gaining as allies.

"Do you really think so?" Neville asks quietly.

I snort softly and grin at him. "Neville, if you can't cast spells better than Crabbe, then I will eat my robe. I have faith in you."

"Are you really my friend?" Hermione asks. "I mean, we just met, and, oh dear, all I did was babble and you hardly managed to say two words. I've never had a real friend before, but--"

I cut her off, holding my hand up with a smirk. "It's alright, Hermione. Yes, we can be friends. Okay?"

I might regret that even more than antagonizing Draco, but she could be useful. She could _especially_ be useful at disproving even the slightest thought that I might actually be Voldemort, if anyone ever thinks to suspect. Voldemort would never be friends with a Mudblood, after all. And if I ever need any research done, I can just point her in the direction of a library and let her digest books. Perhaps I should gently, slowly tease her interest into the Dark Arts so that she won't be alarmed at some of the things I might one day want her to research for me. Yes, that's a splendid idea, now that I think on it.

We arrive at Hogwarts, cross the lake, and are shuffled into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. I wonder where Neville and Hermione will wind up, and I'm more than a little nervous about myself, too. I stand by and take some slow, deep breaths, trying to calm myself as I wait with the other first years to be sorted.

Hermione Granger goes up when her name is called, and the hat sits on her head for several minutes before announcing, "GRYFFINDOR!"

That's a bit of a surprise, and a disappointment. I'd thought for sure she'd be in Ravenclaw with me. She seems quite pleased as she goes over to sit with the Gryffindors.

Neville Longbottom gets called up, and the Sorting Hat declares, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Another Gryffindor. That one's less surprising, but still, it's unlikely I'll be in the same house as him now. If he'd gotten Hufflepuff, there was a chance of it, but Gryffindor is unlikely.

Then, Professor McGonagall calls out, "Harry Potter!"

I come forward and put the hat on my head. Here I am, for better or worse.

"Oh my, now this is interesting," the Sorting Hat murmurs inside my head. "Most interesting indeed."

"Yeah, I'm sure you think so." I smirk. "You'd better not breathe a word of this to anyone. Whether you breathe or not."

"Certainly not," the hat assures me. "I cannot divulge anything which I might see in a student's head."

"Good," I think back at the hat. "Now, I don't suppose there's any chance of putting me in Gryffindor, is there?"

"Not a chance," the Sorting Hat replies.

"Bugger. Didn't think so. How about Hufflepuff?" I venture.

"Your only loyalty is to yourself, I'm afraid. The only chance you'd be in Hufflepuff is if there weren't any houses that fit you better, as dear Helga was always willing to take the rest. And both Ravenclaw and Slytherin would fit you much better."

"Well, can you at least put me in Ravenclaw, then?" I ask hopefully.

"You don't want to be in Slytherin?" the Sorting Hat whispers into my mind. "You're as clever and ambitious as always, and Slytherin could help you on the way to greatness, as they did before."

"Put me in Ravenclaw!" I demand.

The Sorting Hate muses for a moment. "Hmm, you've a good mind, to be sure, but no, I don't think that will do at all. You are most ambitious, and all you wish to use your intelligence for is for the advancement of your own plans."

"If you don't put me in Ravenclaw you ratty piece of cloth, I'll stuff you full of rocks and sink you to the bottom of the lake!"

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat calls out.

"I hate you so much," I think bitterly.

I pull the hat off of my head and stumble over toward the Slytherin table unhappily. My plans are already falling apart before they've hardly even begun.


	5. Starting Classes

I sit next to Theodore Nott at the Slytherin table, not wanting to go anywhere near Draco Malfoy at the moment. The game's been blown, and I'm just moving in reflex at the moment. I knew I wouldn't be able to hide from everyone forever, but to have everything given away so quickly in front of everyone? This is a disaster. The next thing I know, Dumbledore will be calling me into his office, and he'll use his Legilimency to rip everything from my mind, and I'll be killed.

Draco doesn't seem so intent on avoiding _me_ , however. He moves halfway down the table to plop himself down right across from me. "Oy, Potter, you look like you've swallowed a flobberworm."

"Go away, Malfoy," I mutter.

"Upset that you didn't get to be with your _friends_?" he prods.

"Back off, Malfoy," says an older girl wearing a prefect's badge. She turns to me and adds, "Welcome to Slytherin. I'm Gemma Farley, fifth year prefect. In Slytherin, we stick together and look out for our own." She gives a pointed look at Draco, who just makes a sour expression.

Her words barely register with me. I'm tense and in shock, but after several long moments, it sinks in that no one is immediately starting to shoot curses at me.

"Potter?" Gemma says gently, coming over behind me to put a hand on my shoulder. "You alright? Sorry if this isn't the house you might've been hoping for. But I can assure you that we're not nearly as evil or whatever rumors you've heard make us out to be. We're not just Death Eaters in training here."

I take a deep breath and nod slowly. "People aren't going to think I'm the next Dark Lord just because I'm in Slytherin?" I ask quietly for Gemma's ears only.

"Certainly not," Gemma says. "Well, most of them, anyway. But don't worry about it. If anyone gives you trouble, come to me or one of the other prefects and we'll take care of it, alright?"

"Yeah," I say hollowly. "Thanks."

"Good," Gemma says, smiling at me. "Now, relax and enjoy the feast!"

I try. I certainly try. The food is delicious, certainly far better than anything I've had the opportunity to eat at the Dursleys this past decade. The mashed potatoes and gravy go along nicely with the savory medium-rare steak, and the treacle tarts are mouthwateringly sweet. It's almost enough to make me forget I'm sitting near Draco Malfoy instead of Neville Longbottom.

If I'm going to be sharing a dorm with him, I need to find some way to mend his opinion of me. I can't just apologize without appearing weak and risking making matters worse by baiting him into striking against me when I'm not looking. The best solution, of course, would be to make him see that I'm right with whatever contradictory opinion I showed him. Oh, right, that opinion was that a blood traitor and a Mudblood were more worth being around than his two pureblood idiots. Well, I can work with this.

As I'm thinking of how to approach this, my eyes wander to the head table and I assess the current staff, making note of the ones that I recognize. Next to the man with the hideous purple turban sits Severus Snape, glaring at me distastefully from underneath his mop of greasy black hair. A jolt of pain shoots through my scar. Strange, I wonder what happened there? Maybe there's still some connection between me and his Dark Mark, through my scar? I'm not sure what to make of it. It's not like he was ever a particularly loyal Death Eater, anyway. He always had that infatuation with that Mudblood, Lily. Harry Potter's mother. _My_ mother, I should say.

Once the feast is over, I absently listen to Dumbledore's announcements. Typical stuff, aside from the bit about the third floor corridor. I wonder what might be going on with that? Maybe there was some accident there that hasn't fully been cleared up yet. Although you'd think if it had been something so simple as that, he wouldn't have been so vague about the warning.

Along with the other first years, I follow after the prefects as they show us around a bit and take us to the Slytherin common room, and make note of the password to get inside. I'm grateful to be able to slink into my dormitory and flop down on my bed. Soft, cushy four-poster beds with warm green blankets... I can still be glad for simple things.

In addition to Malfoy Jr. and the moron duo, I'm sharing a dorm room with Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini.

"So, Harry Potter's in Slytherin," Blaise says. "Can't say I saw that coming. Are you really that upset about it?"

I shrug. "I'll deal."

"Hoping to go to Gryffindor instead like your parents?"

I shake my head. "I was hoping for Ravenclaw, to be honest. I don't think I'm much like my parents."

"Huh," Blaise says. "What's Malfoy's deal, anyway?"

"I ran into him on the train," I explain. "He was making fun of the people I was sitting with, so I told him off." I rub my eyes. "And now they're probably going to hate me because I'm in Slytherin," I mutter mostly to myself.

"Well, _I'll_ be your friend, anyway," Blaise says.

"Thanks, Blaise," I mutter.

No sense in alienating someone willing to be my ally right now, even though just the idea of "having friends" was not why I wanted Neville and Hermione in my pocket. No matter. I'll figure something out.

* * *

First thing after breakfast the next morning, it's Potions class with Snape, shared between Gryffindor and Slytherin. I think this might be a good chance to make sure Neville is still my friend.

I take a seat next to Neville and say quietly, "Hey. It's too bad we didn't get the same house..."

"Yeah, but Slytherin?" Neville says uneasily. "Really, Harry?"

"I don't see what the big deal is..." Hermione murmurs. "So what if he's in Slytherin? We can still study together."

"Thanks, Hermione," I say, smiling at her.

"But--" Neville begins.

Snape clears his throat at the front of the room, glaring at the three of us. "I will implore you all to be silent, as class is about to begin. Any interruptions will be met with point deductions."

The class goes quiet, and Snape proceeds to go into an overblown speech that makes me wonder how long he spent rehearsing it in the mirror to get in just the right amount of arrogance and contempt.

"And I see we have a new celebrity in our class this year," Snape says, looking at me dourly, but I don't take the bait and refuse to meet his gaze. No easy Legilimency for you. "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

I groan inwardly. Is he testing me to make sure that I don't have knowledge I shouldn't have yet? Draught of the Living Death is a NEWT level potion. No first year should know about it, never mind have a chance of being able to make it correctly.

Hermione's hand shoots up into the air. Okay, maybe _one_ first year might know about it. How many books did she read, anyway?

But me, I have nothing to prove. It's more important to keep my cover than to show off. "I don't know, sir."

After a few more questions that I shouldn't know, Snape says, "Well, I see that fame isn't everything."

"Hermione, which books were those in?" I ask aloud. "I don't remember coming across them in our text."

"Well, the Draught of the Living Death was in _Advanced Potion-Making_ , page 10--" Hermione begins.

"You are speaking out of turn," Snape says. "One point from Gryff--"

"Snape," I say sharply. "I am in Slytherin. If you are going to take points away from Slytherin, go right ahead. If you're going to give me detention, be my guest. But do not punish Hermione for being capable of answering a _NEWT level_ question, quietly waiting her turn and being ignored, and only speaking up when I asked her directly."

"Potter, that is quite enough," Snape says. "Detention. Saturday."

"Thank you, Professor," I reply coolly.

I'm going to kill him. I'm going to get a big, magical snake, and _kill_ him with it. Snape makes no further protest, and seems to be confused as to which of us actually "won". It doesn't matter if I got detention. The point was to get myself in good standing with the Gryffindors again.

"That was wicked," whispers a redhead sitting behind me. Weasley, I think his name was. I don't bother to reply. If he wants to lose points for his house of his own doing, that won't be my fault.

I spend the remainder of the class being a model student. We're instructed to brew a potion to cure boils, and I team up with Neville to see how good he is with it, and how much help he might need. As it turns out, Neville's so bad at Potions that pairing up with him regularly should bring me down to somewhere acceptably within school-age range. And he'll also appreciate the assistance in making sure he passes the class.

After class, Hermione says, "Thanks for standing up for me, but you didn't need to get detention on my behalf..."

"It's nothing," I reply.

"I wonder why Professor Snape did that," Blaise says thoughtfully. "He must've been trying to make you look bad with questions you couldn't answer. If so, it sure backfired on him."

"I have no idea what he's got against me," I grumble. "I'm in his house, for Merlin's sake!"

"And that was very Slytherin of you," Blaise says.

"That was very _Gryffindor_ of him," Neville argues.

"Potter's got detention!" Draco taunts. "Couldn't even get through five minutes of his first class without getting detention!"

I roll my eyes and sigh. He is such... a first year. It seems my actions on the train established me as his school rival, and he's not likely to stop hounding me unless I do something about it. I make a mental note to deal with it sooner rather than later. I'm not here to learn magic, after all, but to make alliances and manipulate the world into my hands.

Our next class is Defense Against the Dark Arts, and the idiot wearing the purple turban, Quirrell, hardly gets two words out of his mouth before I groan internally and regret ever placing that curse upon the position. He stutters so badly and sounds so incompetent that I resolve to just ignore him completely and find something more productive to do with the class period.

When Quirrell turns away, I feel a jab of pain in my forehead. I frown in confusion. That turban is certainly ugly, but I wouldn't think that the mere sight of it should be physically painful. Maybe it doesn't really mean anything, and my scar is just having weird reactions now that I'm surrounded by magic again. I don't even know why I have a scar. It's not like the Killing Curse leaves a mark, and I've murdered enough people with it to know.

"This bloke's afraid of his own shadow," Tracey Davis murmurs.

"How is he supposed to teach us to defend ourselves?" Daphne Greengrass adds.

"Maybe he'll teach us what _not_ to do," Blaise says wryly.

"What, do the opposite of whatever he suggests?" I ask.

Blaise snickers. "They say wise men learn from their mistakes, wiser men learn from other people's mistakes."

Unlike Snape, if Quirrell even notices that we're chattering away in the back of the room, he doesn't make any indication of it or take points from Slytherin. He's probably too busy trying to avoid fainting at the mere thought of the things he's trying to teach us.

That evening, before bed, I confront Draco in our dormitory, in full view of the other four boys who share our room. "Malfoy," I hiss, pinning him with a cold glare. "You will desist with your childish taunts and behave as befitting a pureblood wizard of your stature."

Draco sputters at me indignantly, his quill very nearly scratching a tear into the parchment he was scribbling at. I glance over at the words and smirk as he tries to cover it up with his arm, smearing the ink with his sleeve.

"Writing to your father?" I say. "Go ahead. Complain to him about me all you like."

"What makes you think I was writing about _you_?" Draco retorts. "You're not the center of the world."

I snatch the parchment away from him and read it aloud. "Dear Father, I am proud to say I have been sorted into Slytherin house. I can hardly believe it, but Harry Potter got sorted into Slytherin as well! And--"

Draco grabs the letter out of my hands before I can read any more, almost ripping it in half in the process. "Don't make me hex you."

I snort softly. "What are you going to do, give me a runny nose?" I shake my head. "Look. I don't care what you tell your father about me. And I have no interest in overthrowing your social order at the moment. I'll at least wait until I'm out of Hogwarts first to take over the world." I grin at him. "All I want of you right now is to be left alone. Good night, Malfoy." I head over toward my bed to get changed.

"Are you really planning on taking over the world?" Blaise asks me quietly.

"Absolutely," I reply.

"I can see why you got put in Slytherin..." Blaise murmurs. He looks at me and grins. "Although the teddy bear pajamas kind of ruin the image of world domination."

"The teddy pajamas rule," I insist.

* * *

On Wednesday morning at breakfast, Draco comes up to me and says, "Potter. I... would like to apologize for my earlier behavior."

I'll bet he just got a letter from his father telling him to make nice with me. Grinning at him, I diplomatically refrain from mentioning that. I could just graciously accept the apology and let it go, since I really don't care so long as he's not bothering me, but I'd like to see just how far he's willing to go to turn this around.

"I'm glad for that, but I want you to apologize to Neville and Hermione, too," I say. "They're the ones you really insulted."

"Ugh," Draco says, making a face and glancing over toward the Gryffindor table. "You really want to be friends with them?"

"Yes," I reply firmly.

"Why? They're--"

"--valuable allies," I finish.

"But that Granger girl is a Mu--"

"--Muggleborn," I put in, not letting him finish the word. "And she's also the smartest witch in our year. Or have you forgotten how she not only knew what goes into a Draught of the Living Death, but what _page number_ the recipe could be found on? You don't have to like her, but you can't deny she would be useful."

Draco frowns thoughtfully. "Maybe... Fine. I'll play nice with your pet Gryffindors."

"That's all I ask," I say with a crooked grin.

Things are looking up. Maybe my plans won't work out so badly after all. I still need to be careful, but so far so good.

* * *

Thursday is our first Transfiguration class, and the first class we've had with a practical exercise. Professor McGonagall wants us to turn matchsticks into needles. I'm doubly wary about letting on that I could likely already do all the first year material wandlessly and wordlessly. Well, maybe not, since this body's magic isn't fully developed yet, but it wouldn't be for lack of skill or knowledge.

At first, I sit back and watch the others in my year to see how well they're doing with it. Crabbe and Goyle are utterly useless, unsurprisingly, and can't get the slightest change out of their matchsticks. Of the others, Draco is doing the best, although he's only managed to make it shiny and slightly pointy.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall says, stopping in front of my desk. "Would you kindly attempt the transfiguration rather than merely watching your fellow students perform it?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say sheepishly. I intentionally try to move my wand wrong, but it's harder than you might think to do something _wrong_ when the right way is so ingrained as to be instinctive by this point.

McGonagall isn't fooled for a moment. "With the correct wand movement, Mr. Potter, and not waving your wand about like an epileptic house-elf."

"Yes, ma'am," I mutter. This time, I move my wand correctly, but try to hold my magic back as much as I can. It's no use, though. It's enough to change the matchstick into a needle perfectly anyway.

McGonagall gives me a small smile and says, "Well done, Mr. Potter. One point to Slytherin for you." She adds quietly, "Please see me after class."

I sink down into my chair as she walks away, mortified and panicked. Trying to hold back or do it wrong didn't work, and just felt unnatural. I don't really want to get into the habit of doing that, lest I cripple my ability to do magic, especially if it's not going to do any good anyway. But now I'm horrified at the thought that surely they will realize that I'm no mere first year student. I can't disguise my skill without being really obvious about it. What am I going to do? The game's up this time for sure.

"What's wrong?" Blaise whispers to me. "That was great. She's probably just going to praise you on it in private."

"Maybe..." I breathe.

"Well, relax, mate. It's not like you've done anything wrong."

My heart is pounding by the time class ends, and I make my way into Professor McGonagall's office.

"Have a seat, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says. "You're not in trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," I say quietly, and sit down.

"I must compliment you on your excellent transfiguration today," McGonagall says. "A prodigy like your father. You'd do him proud."

"Thank you, ma'am," I reply, still not relaxing. Still tense. The other shoe will drop anytime now. Where's the 'but'...

"But I must ask, why were you attempting to disguise your ability like that?"

Right, there's the 'but'. I knew that was coming. I freeze and say quietly, "I don't think I should say."

"It's alright," McGonagall says. "I am merely curious, and concerned that this might hold you back."

I take a deep breath. "It's foolish, I know. Force of habit, even though my cousin isn't here. He's a Muggle, or a Squib, or whatever he is."

"Go on, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says reassuringly. "You can tell me."

I say quietly, eyes firmly on the desk, even though I doubt she's a Legilimens I'm not going to take the chance. "I always had to make sure never to do better than Dudley. He was a middling to poor student himself, so I had to make sure to bring my scores down to his level, even if it meant intentionally giving the wrong answers. But that's not going to work in practical exercises, and I don't know why I'm still doing it here."

"Why did you do that in the first place?" McGonagall says, frowning. "Were you afraid your cousin would be upset if you did better than him?"

I quietly stare at the desk as if working out whether to tell her, while inwardly gleeful. I've got her playing right into my web.

"No one is going to hurt you here, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says. "You are free to tell me anything you wish."

I give a small nod. "Uncle Vernon would be even more upset. He wasn't about to let some 'freak' as he called me outdo his perfect son. I'd get sent to my cupboard without dinner if I came home with grades better than Dudley."

"Your... cupboard?" McGonagall repeats. "They punished you by sending you to a cupboard?"

"Well, yes," I murmur sheepishly. "But that was where I'd normally sleep anyway. The cupboard under the stairs was my bedroom."

"What were the house's bedrooms used for?" McGonagall asks.

"Well, there was the master bedroom, of course," I say. "Then there was Dudley's room, and Dudley's second room where he kept all his toys, and the guest bedroom where Aunt Marge stayed when she came to visit."

"I see," McGonagall says, her lips thinning. "Well, Mr. Potter, let me tell you right now that you need not fear reprisal, so don't hold yourself back in your classes. You are a talented young man, and I would hate to see your unfortunate past get in the way of your ambitions. Be assured that I will be speaking with Professor Dumbledore and see about ensuring that alternative accommodations are made for your housing during the summer."

"If I get sent back there, I'll just run away again," I mutter. "I'm not going back there."

"You ran away?" McGonagall asks, raising an eyebrow.

I nod. "After I got my Hogwarts letter. I was afraid Uncle Vernon would beat me, so I ran away and hid at Mrs. Figg's house."

McGonagall sighs and nods. "I see. I would advise you not to run away if you can help it, as there are those who might wish to do you harm. There are places where you can go and take refuge if need be that should be safe. I will speak with the headmaster and your head of house about making arrangements."

"I don't think Snape likes me," I mutter.

" _Professor_ Snape, Mr. Potter," McGonagall says. "Show him proper respect."

"I'll show him respect when he behaves in a manner befitting a professor," I say. "Or didn't you hear about Monday's debacle?"

"What happened on Monday?" McGonagall asks.

"He opened the class by quizzing me on NEWT-level potions," I say. "Then he tried to take points from Gryffindor when I asked Hermione what book Draught of the Living Death was from, and she said _Advanced Potion-Making_. I defended her, and he gave me detention for it." I pause, and then add, "You can ask any of the first year Gryffindors or Slytherins and they'll tell you the same, if you don't believe me. Or-- or-- if there's some magic that can confirm I'm telling the truth, or show you my memories--"

"That won't be necessary," McGonagall says quickly. "I believe you."

That's good, because I wasn't actually going to show anyone my memories or take Veratiserum anyway. Well, maybe with a Pensieve, but I expected the mere offer would be more than enough to confirm it, and she took my bluff. I relax and breathe a sigh of relief that isn't entirely feigned. "You'll be the first teacher that ever listened to me about anything, then."

McGonagall puts her forehead in her hand. "I will speak with Snape. If you are having any trouble in school, you should be able to speak to him, as your head of house. However, if you have any further trouble with _him_ , then you should speak with _me_ , as the deputy headmistress."

"Yes, ma'am," I say. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Run along, now, Mr. Potter. I shan't take any more of your time."

I practically skip out of the office, not even bothering to restrain my broad smile. What a flawless victory! She bought every line I fed her.

As I'm heading down to the Great Hall for lunch, my mind not really on what I'm doing, I trip on a moving staircase and go tumbling. My scar hurts, my body hurts, and I think something might be broken, but I don't have long to think about it before I black out.


	6. Facing Monsters

I wake a sterile room that smells of medicinal potions. The hospital wing, no doubt. What happened? I must have been so distracted that I tripped and fell down a moving staircase. That was exceeedingly careless of me.

I spend Thursday evening and Friday morning resting at the insistence of the nurse, Madam Pomfrey, and drift in and out of sleep as the potions do their work and heal me. I wake around lunch time to find Neville has joined me in the hospital wing and is laying on the bed next to me. His face and hands are covered in burns, and Pomfrey is carefully applying salve to them.

"What happened, mate?" I ask.

"Potion exploded," Neville says.

"Sorry I wasn't there to help with it," I say.

"I'm so rubbish with Potions, I think I'm just going to bring you down," Neville says ruefully.

"That's alright," I say brightly. "We can meet in the middle at somewhere above 'disaster'." I look to Madam Pomfrey. "Will he be alright?"

"He should be fine soon enough," Pomfrey says. "I'd like to keep both of you in here for a little bit longer, but you should be free to go by dinner." She finishes her work and heads off to leave me alone with Neville for the time being.

"You really don't mind helping me with Potions?" Neville asks quietly.

"Of course not," I say. "That's what friends are for, isn't it?"

"Thanks, Harry," Neville says. "And thanks for convincing Gran to let me get this wand. I've been doing better with wandwork than I expected. I _haven't_ been at the bottom of the class."

I smile at him. "You'll be great someday, Neville. Have no doubt about that."

My injuries heal quickly enough, but while it's enough to get me out of Friday's Potions class, it doesn't excuse me from Saturday's detention with Snape. Well, I'm not worried about scrubbing a few cauldrons. Gaining points with the students was worth that small sacrifice. He sets me to work with barely an unnecessary word after explaining how it must be done and that I must absolutely not use magic to help me.

"Professor," I say as I work. "I hear you knew my mother."

Snape stiffens at my comment. "This is detention, not time for chatter."

"Sorry, sir," I say without contrition. "I could come back at another time and talk? I don't have many memories of her, and I don't remember my father at all."

"You remember her?" Snape demands sharply.

I give a short nod. "I remember... I remember that night. It's my first memory."

"How can you remember that? You were one year old."

"How could I kill a Dark Lord?" I say with a snort. "It was my mother who did that. He asked her to stand aside -- three times, like he didn't want to have to kill her. But she refused, and she did something, and..."

"Enough," Snape growls.

"Sorry, sir," I say. "I just hoped--"

"You will finish your detention in silence and then begone," Snape says.

"Yes, sir," I say. "Sorry, sir."

I've debated on cautiously letting on to one or more of my former Death Eaters just what happened, but decided that I could not trust them enough to confide in them. I'm not ready to let that genie out of the bottle yet. I don't trust Snape at all, and others like Lucius Malfoy I don't trust what they might do. It's too early to give the game away deliberately, and my cover is tenuous enough as it is. I quietly scrub the cauldrons and return to my dorm for a nap.

Around eleven o'clock at night, I creep out of the dorm and to the common room, heading for the door. Thankfully, the common room is empty at the moment, and if any of the older students are staying up late, they're doing it in their dorms.

Blaise's quiet voice comes from behind me. "Going somewhere?"

I spin around in startlement. "Just wanted to sneak around the castle at night. Want to come?"

"Sure," Blaise says. "Thought if we get caught, it'll be another detention." He chuckles.

"That's okay," I say, making my way to the door. "I want to find out what's up with the third floor corridor. If detention is the price to pay for that information, then so be it."

We leave the Slytherin area and head up out of the dungeons, keeping a close eye out for that Squib caretaker, Filch. Upon reaching the door to the forbidden corridor, I try it and discover that it's locked.

I pull out my wand and point it at the doorknob, and cast, " _Alohomora_." The lock clicks open readily, and the two of us slip into the dark corridor. Once safely inside and out of view of any wandering patrols, I cast, " _Lumos_."

The tip of my wand lights up, giving me a good view of an enormous, slobbering three-headed dog. It snarls low in its throats at us as it prepares to pounce.

"Oh, bugger," I murmur. "Run!"

Blaise doesn't need to be told twice. He scrambles to get the door open again, and we rush out into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind us. Afraid that the beast might bash down the door to get at us, we don't pause for a moment, racing down the corridor -- and straight into Filch.

"Mr. Filch!" Blaise blubbers, practically throwing himself at the Squib caretaker. "Save us from the three-headed monster with a nice, safe detention!"

Filch glares at us. "So, a couple of little Slytherins out of bounds, hmm?"

I glance back toward the far end of the corridor and say, "I don't think it's chasing us."

"You should've both been eaten," Filch says. "A pity, that. Come along, now. Back to your dorms with you, and you'll be spending tomorrow in detention."

"Yes, sir," I say.

Once Filch deposits the two of us back in the Slytherin common room, Blaise says, "Do you just really like detention?"

"I want to know what that cerberus was guarding," I say quietly.

"Why do you think it was guarding anything?" Blaise wonders.

"Why else would Dumbledore have put it there?" I say.

"It could be for Care of Magical Creatures," Blaise says.

I shake my head. "If it were, it wouldn't be inside the castle, and there wouldn't have been the vague warning at the start of term about it." I pause. "I don't think, anyway."

"Well, I certainly don't care to get eaten," Blaise says. "I'm going to bed."

* * *

I settle into a routine, and begin to allow myself to relax a little as it seems clear that I'm merely considered a talented student and not questioned for knowing more than I should. In fact, Hermione is doing even better than me in many areas. If I can put myself firmly behind Hermione, I won't have to be too paranoid about doing too well.

Neville is as atrocious at flying as he is at potions, so bad that he manages to break his wrist in our first flying lesson. I make all the appropriate sympathetic noises at him and even give him back the stupid little Remembrall that he dropped.

Halloween is on a Thursday this year, so we'll still have classes, followed by a feast for dinner. The castle is decorated for the occasion in an excessively Muggle fashion that grates on me to see. Carved pumpkins and fake spiders and ridiculous paper ghosts... it makes me want to smash and burn things.

I sigh and shove those thoughts aside, which probably winds up making me look a little depressed as I head in for breakfast. Before I go to take a seat at the Slytherin table, I go over to the Gryffindor table where Neville and Hermione are sitting.

"Happy Halloween, guys," I say, forcing a smile at them. "I got something for you." I pass Neville a box of chocolate frogs, and Hermione a bag of some sugar-free Muggle sweets. It had been interesting getting those here in time for Halloween, but I'm sure she'll appreciate the gesture.

"Oh!" Neville says, taking his treats. "Thanks, Harry!"

Hermione looks at her own bag dubiously. "Harry, how did you get this here?"

I shrug and grin crookedly. "Doesn't matter. I thought you might like it, with your parents being dentists and all."

"Harry, not that I'm complaining, but sometimes I think you're trying too hard to be our friend," Neville says.

I'm taken aback by that. "What do you mean? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, not at all," Neville says, shaking his head.

"You go out of your way to be nice, but sometimes it feels a bit forced," Hermione admits, looking at the candy.

I sigh and roll my eyes. "Well, sorry for trying to be nice, then! It's not like I ever really had friends before."

"You're a Slytherin," Ron Weasley says, poking his head into the conversation. "That's enough to make anyone wonder why you do things."

I glare at Ron. "Nobody asked _your_ opinion."

"Hey, hey, be nice," Neville says. "Can't we all just get along?"

"Not when there's Slytherins involved," Ron says with a snort. "I have no idea why you're even friends with him." He glances aside at Hermione and adds, "I think Hermione must just be desperate, since nobody else likes her anyway."

"Weasley!" I snap.

"Yes?" says Fred and George Weasley in unison, leaning over toward us.

I snort softly at the twins. "Right, can't just say 'Weasley' around here. _Ron_ , you take that back."

"Why?" Ron says. "It's true." He shrugs. "Though I'd pretend to be her friend, too, if she'd let me copy off her notes."

I can only stare at the accusation. As if I'd ever need to copy notes from a first year Mudblood!

Ron's rant is only getting started, it seems. "It's not like anyone would want to be friends with you for any other reason," he continues. "The way you're always showing off how many books you've read. Nobody wants to hear quotes from _Hogwarts, a History_!"

"Ron, that's horrible!" Hermione says. "That's not true." She looks to me, eyes full of doubt and sparkling with tears. "Is it?" I can hardly open my mouth to reply before she decides on her own answer. "It is, isn't it!" Hermione accuses. "You didn't really like me at all, either of you! You just wanted to pretend to be my friend so you could use me! You've just been copying off my notes and getting me to help you study! Just like everyone else who claimed to be my friend before! Get away from me, all of you!"

Hermione storms off out of the Great Hall sobbing, leaving behind the bag of candy I got her sitting on the table, forgotten.

"Hermione, wait!" I cry, starting to rush after her.

"Just leave her be," Neville says. "I'm sure she'll calm down soon enough..."

I sigh and turn to Ron. "Be glad I don't hex you for being a prat."

Ron mutters something unintelligible, and as he goes to stuff his face with breakfast, I turn to stalk away back to my own table. Another name added to the list in my head of people I'm planning to kill later. Ron might very well ruin everything. I'll have to see later just how much damage this did.

Classes go as normal. I don't see Hermione at lunch, and think she's just avoiding me, but she isn't in the Great Hall at dinner for the feast either. I frown, and head over to the Gryffindor table.

"Has anyone seen Hermione?" I ask.

"She didn't show up to our classes today," Neville replies. "I don't know where she ran off to."

"She's holed up in the girls' loo on the first floor," Lavender Brown replies. "Boys! Honestly!"

As I'm considering whether or not I should go after her, Professor Quirrell rushes into the Great Hall and exclaims, "Troll in the dungeons!" and then promptly faints. The Great Hall erupts into chaos.

Dumbledore stands up and says, "Prefects, guide your students to their common rooms, posthaste." With a gesture to the other staff members, he heads out of the Great Hall, presumably to go hunt down this errant troll.

"My common room is in the dungeon," I mutter sourly.

"Hermione doesn't know about the troll," Neville breathes.

"Oh, bugger," I add. "Right. Come on, Neville. Let's go find her and make sure she's alright."

I don't even stop to think about it. Followed closely by Neville, I slip away from the crowd out of the Great Hall and up the stairs. The troll shouldn't even be anywhere nearby. I'll just swoop in and "save" her without actually being in any real danger myself, and she'll forgive me and not question why I want to be her friend, and I'll score points with Neville in the process. It's a win-win situation.

The door to the loo is ajar, and I call out, "Hermione!" as I push inside.

A horrible stench assaults my nostrils, and a deep, rumbling growl thunders through the air. The troll is here, raising its massive club toward Hermione, who shrieks in panic. It's a troll. I should just run and hide, and leave Hermione to her fate. I didn't mean to actually put myself in danger. And yet...

"Hey, ugly!" I shout.

With a grunt, the troll freezes in mid-motion, then turns around to look at the newcomers. Trolls are vulnerable to fire, leaving me not a lot of spells that would affect it much, and only one that a first year would generally know.

I raise my wand and cast, " _Incendio!_ "

A gout of flame erupts from the tip of my wand and strikes the monster like a burning whip, searing into its beige flesh. Roaring in pain, the troll drops its club and grabs me with one hand, lifting me off the ground like a rag doll and pinning me against the wall. Gah! I didn't realize these things could move this fast!

" _In-- inss--_ " I try to cast, but I can't get the word out. I can't concentrate like this. Bugger this, I'm going to die, I'm going to die in my first year of school, and for what?

" _Incendio!_ " cries Neville. Small flames shoot from his cherry wand, burning into the troll's side.

" _Incendio!_ " Hermione casts next, a burst of fire striking the creature's other side.

The troll lets go, allowing me to slide to the ground gasping for breath. It looks left and right, its tiny brain unable to decide who to attack.

" _Incendio!_ " I cast once more, hitting it dead on in the chest.

Between a combined effort from the three of us, the troll falls to the ground and is still.

"Ugh, and I thought it smelled bad _before_ ," Neville says, looking uneasily at the charred body.

Rubbing my chest and throat where the troll had grabbed me, I say, "That was awesome, Neville."

"I just tried to cast what you did," Neville says. "I've never cast that spell before and wasn't sure if it was going to work, but it _had_ to or-- or you might be dead!"

"The two of you came for me?" Hermione asks quietly.

"We were afraid you might be in trouble," I say.

"And why is there a troll in the castle in the first place?" she wonders.

"That's an excellent question," I reply.

As I'm turning for the door, several of Hogwarts' staff members step inside. Quirrell looks at the corpse with such terror that I think he's likely to faint at the sight of a _dead_ troll now.

"And what is this?" Snape says.

McGonagall examines the spectacle and says, "It appears that three first year students managed to kill a fully grown mountain troll and lived to tell the tale."

"Potter, Longbottom, Granger, what were you doing here in the first place?" Snape demands.

"Hermione was in the loo when we heard about the troll," I say. "Going to the loo isn't against the rules, is it?"

"Your cheek isn't necessary, Potter," Snape says. "And that doesn't explain you or Longbottom."

"We came to find her and make sure she got to her common room alright," I say. "Since the troll was supposed to be in the dungeons, we didn't figure it would have already climbed two flights of stairs. And what's the deal with sending the students to their common rooms, when Slytherin's common room is _in_ the dungeons?"

"Enough, Potter," Snape says.

"I'm impressed that the three of you were able to take down the troll," McGonagall says.

" _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ says that trolls are resistant to magic, but vulnerable to fire," Hermione says.

Oh, good, it wasn't in some book that I'd have no business reading as a first year.

"And it was very brave of Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Potter to ensure your safety," McGonagall says. "Although they should have notified a teacher or prefect instead of running to the rescue themselves, I cannot fault their intentions."

"They were foolish and reckless as Gryffindors," Snape says with a snort. "Although it appears that Longbottom's penchant for setting things on fire proved useful for once."

"Five points to each of you," McGonagall says to us. "For a total of ten to Gryffindor and five to Slytherin. Now, let's get you all to the hospital wing and have Madam Pomfrey look you over."

As we follow the teachers to the hospital wing, I notice that Snape is limping a little and the hem of his robe is torn, and start thinking. How did that troll get into the castle? They aren't exactly known for being smart. I imagine that someone let it in. As a distraction, perhaps? While everyone else was running around frantically, someone could have easily slipped up to check out that third floor corridor. Most curious.

Once we're left in the hospital wing and Pomfrey makes sure that my injuries aren't too serious, Hermione says, "I probably should apologize. I mean, you came and saved me and everything. It was silly of me to think that you were just trying to use me for your studies, in hindsight. You're probably as good as I am with casting spells. And _I_ didn't remember in the heat of the moment that trolls are vulnerable to fire."

I smile faintly at her. "Just, please. I might be bad at being friends and it might seem like I'm trying too hard, but that's because I never had a real friend before in my life. I like you -- both of you -- and I'd rather you not be cross with me. Friends?"

I hold out my hands to them. Neville and Hermione take my hands and say, "Friends."

As I'm heading back to the Slytherin common room, I absently wonder to myself, why _did_ I go to save Hermione? I have no answers. As useful as she might be, I wouldn't generally think I'd be willing to risk my life for _anyone_.


	7. Biting Criticism

After the Halloween incident, I mull over the thought that whatever Dumbledore is hiding past the third floor corridor, Snape obviously wants it. As a Death Eater, I wonder if he's looking for something that would bring Voldemort back to life. No, if something were actually able to bring someone back to life, it would be Lily, I think.

When did I start thinking of myself in the third person? Ah, no matter. I'm not exactly Voldemort anymore, anyway. Just as well to leave that name behind for now, if not for good.

By the time I get out of the hospital wing for my injuries, the story about our defeat of the troll is all over the school.

"Well, look who's here," says an older student by the name of Flint as I take a seat at the Slytherin table for breakfast. "Our little champion troll slayer himself."

"I'm glad you left me behind when going to fight trolls," Blaise says. "Great plan to get Gryffindors to help you with stupid, dangerous things like that instead."

"You really killed a troll, Harry?" Draco says, looking at me dubiously. "How did you manage that?"

"Fire-Making Charms," I say.

"Well, I can see you and that Granger girl being able to cast that," Pansy Parkinson says. "She might be a Mu-- Muggleborn, but at least she can actually cast spells. But Longbottom? He's almost a Squib! You were the one who did most of the work, right?"

"Neville successfully cast it as well," I say. I'm a little surprised at that myself. Maybe he's not so useless after all.

"You're having us on," Draco scoffs.

After breakfast, Neville and Hermione meet up with me. "You alright there, Harry?" Neville asks.

"I'm fine," I say, waving it off. "It was just a scratch."

"Just a scratch?" Hermione says. "That troll nearly tore your head off!"

"I'm sure I would have been fine if I'd just gotten another spell off," I say.

"Well, if you didn't need my help, maybe I should have just taken advantage of your distraction to run away!" Hermione huffs.

"You looked like you were really in trouble..." Neville says. "Maybe you _are_ trying too hard, but it's not like anyone else wants to be my friend. I didn't want the troll to-- to kill you..."

I sigh and slump my shoulders. Much as I hate to admit it even to myself, but I think I really did need their help there. For all that I can tell myself in hindsight a million things I could have done to get myself out of that situation, most of them would have required magic above my level, a lot of which I'm not even sure I can even cast yet. Wandless, nonverbal magic at eleven years old? My body hasn't developed enough to be able to handle controlled uses of power like that. I'd as likely kill myself trying.

In a roundabout way, Neville had the power to vanquish me then and there simply by not raising his wand to help.

I'm reading too much into that stupid prophecy. It's probably not even valid anymore. Whatever. I can't second-guess myself. And having allies _is_ always useful.

"Sorry," I murmur reluctantly. "I didn't-- I didn't mean to sound ungrateful." Merlin, this is hard for me. I can say all the empty words I want, but I can appreciate their assistance, even if I wouldn't have been in danger in the first place if I hadn't been trying to help Hermione. "I... um... th--thank you."

"And thank _you_ for coming to help me even though you didn't have to," Hermione says, smiling faintly at me.

I stare at the floor, my hands shaking slightly. What's wrong with me? I'm an immortal Dark Lord. Why do I let these children get to me? Of course they came to my aid, like any good minions. I should not have needed it in the first place, but I am yet weak in this form. I will not be weak forever.

* * *

I consider trying to break into the third floor corridor by force. If I could kill a troll, surely I can kill a cerberus. I'd just need to be sure not to hold anything back. But no, that's too risky. I don't know how much power output my body can handle at this age, and the three-headed dog might not be the worst of the protections set there. There's no guarantee I'd be able to get past all of them.

What could Dumbledore possibly be hiding? There's not much that can bring back the dead, if that's really what it might be, and little of it would the exalted leader of the Light associate with. Some rare potion ingredient? An obscure magical artifact? The Resurrection Stone, perhaps? No, that's probably just a fable. Hmm, maybe with his association with Nicholas Flamel, he got his hands on a Philosopher's Stone? Perhaps he's keeping it around to perform some alchemy experiments with it, or to prolong his life, as he does seem to be getting up in years. And Snape might just want it for experiments of his own, maybe even to try to find a way to bring back Lily somehow.

Unfortunately, that's all wild conjecture, and I have no way to confirm or deny it. It's not like I can just _ask_ one of the teachers about it. And I'm not keen on risking my life on such an uncertainty.

Come November, the first Quidditch came of the year is Gryffindor against Slytherin. Neither Neville nor Hermione is all that keen on Quidditch, but Blaise and Draco try to drag me along to the game.

"Ah, come on, you can't just sit in here and study all day," Blaise says.

"Why not?" I say with a snort. "It's raining and miserable out there."

"We can get the upper years to cast spells to keep us dry," Draco says. "It's Quidditch! How can you not be interested in Quidditch?"

I roll my eyes in annoyance. "You know what? I'm just going to hole up in the library. With everyone out watching the game aside from some Ravenclaws I'm sure, it should be nice and quiet in there."

"Suit yourself," Blaise says. "I'm sure it'll be very exciting. I'll tell you all about it later!"

"I'd really rather you didn't," I drawl.

With everyone else clearing out, I make my way to the library. Unsurprisingly, there's only a couple upper year Ravenclaws quietly studying in the corner, leaving me with the run of the place, more or less.

It probably would have been better to go along and be social, but I really don't care to sit through Quidditch games in the rain, and I will probably have to sit through a lot more of them if I don't dispel the notion early on that I might be the least bit interested in the sport.

After writing some tedious essays for class, I return to my dorm. The Slytherin common room is deserted at the moment. Everyone's probably out watching the game. I head over and open up my trunk. In a blur, a trio of vicious biting fairies dart out of the trunk and attack me. Gah! How did doxies get into my trunk? I swat them away frantically and whip out my wand, and snap off three quick hexes to repel them.

My head swims. I've been bitten, multiple times. And I just used spells a first year shouldn't know. Was someone trying to bait me into showing my skill? Bah, I don't even care at the moment. Doxy venom. Need an antidote. I don't have one in my trunk. Foolish, foolish. I don't even have a bezoar. Where can I find a bezoar? Hospital wing is likely, potions stores are closer though. I don't think I can make it to the hospital wing.

Groggily, I stumble out of the dorm and into the common room, then out into the dungeons. How many bites did I take? Am I going to seriously die from doxy venom? That would be just embarrassing.

By the time I make it into the potions storeroom, I can't even see straight. I stagger and trip, and go crashing into a shelf. Several potions fall to the ground and shatter. My ankle burns as one of them splashes onto my skin, and I collapse on top of bubbling goo and broken glass.

There has to be some doxy antidote in here somewhere, but I can't tell which potion is which. My glasses got knocked off of my face in the fall. A bezoar, there has to be a bezoar around here somewhere. I fumble about looking for one, causing another vial to fall almost on top of me. Bugger it all.

I pull out my wand, almost dropping it in the process, and say as distinctly as I can manage, " _Accio_ doxy antidote!"

A vial flies in from somewhere and crashes against my head. I run my fingers through my hair and try to lick the remnants of the precious potion off of them. It's no use. I'm not going to get enough of it into me this way.

Waving my wand, I try again. " _Accio_ bezoar!"

A small stone-like mass lands in a puddle of ooze beside me. I snatch it up and shove it in my mouth, hoping that whatever potion it landed in isn't worse than dying of doxy bites.

My senses slowly start clearing as the bezoar works its magic on me. I have numerous small stinging cuts from broken glass, and my skin burns where some of the potions touched me, and there's a beard growing on my left elbow, but at least I don't think I'm in immediate danger of dying. I should try to get myself to the hospital wing. As I try to rise, I discover that my knee is stuck to the floor. Some solution managed to soak all the way through my robes and trousers.

"Oh, come on now," I mutter aloud. I cast a few quick low-level spells in hopes of getting myself free, but to no avail. Failing that, I try some higher-end spells, since obviously nobody is watching or they'd have done something by now. That doesn't work either, and drains me to the point where I shudder at a wave of weakness. Oh no, I don't need to be passing out from magical exhaustion on top of everything else.

I take deep breaths to try to calm myself and keep myself steady. I'm not in any immediate danger of dying. Surely someone will show up sooner or later if I wait long enough. No. I don't want anyone to see me like this. This is embarrassing enough as it is. And I really don't care to see how much damage this potion could do if it's allowed to set.

Trying to focus, I reach for my glasses and set them back on my face, then try to scan the shelves for any potions that might help. Merlin, I've made a mess of this place. Snape might just murder me before I have a chance to murder him first.

"Potter," says Snape's voice from behind me. "I have to wonder sometimes if you are _trying_ to spend the entire school year in detention."

I sigh and clench my fists. If I weren't already planning to murder him later, I'd be planning to kill him just so that no one who ever saw me in this sort of position could live to remember the indignity of it.

"Fine, give me detention," I growl softly. "I don't care. Just unstick me from this floor! And find out _who put doxies in my trunk!_ "

"My first guess would be those infernal Weasley twins," Snape comments absently. After taking once glance at me, he pulls out another potion and drizzles a few drops of it at my knee, which immediately comes free.

We return to my dormitory, and Snape quickly removes the still-dazed doxies, although a quick investigation does not reveal any clue as to who might have pulled this potentially deadly prank. Would the Weasley twins really have done something like this? Their brother didn't seem overly fond of me. This will bear investigating. Someone tried to _kill_ me, indirectly or otherwise. They will pay for this affront.


	8. Reflecting Darkness

No indication is forthcoming about who put doxies in my trunk. While Fred and George Weasley are given detention for it and don't deny doing it, I doubt it was actually them. Could it have been Snape? He would have had access to my dormitory, and certainly doesn't like me overmuch, and his timing when he found me in the storage room was awfully convenient. He could have been watching me the entire time, intent upon humiliating me perhaps, though I'm not sure he would have come to help if I'd died.

That part really rankles on me. I almost died because I let myself be caught by surprise and underestimated a group of doxies. That's pathetic. I'm a bloody Dark Lord, for Merlin's sake!

I'm laying bitterly in the hospital wing, where Snape insisted on taking me to check me up after making sure my dormitory was clear of doxies. At least their lingering presence there supported my story. He gave me detention anyway, though, the half-blooded bastard.

"Harry!" Neville says, coming in along with Hermione. "Are you alright?"

"When we heard you were in the hospital wing..." Hermione begins, but she doesn't finish the sentence.

I snicker softly. "Nothing travels faster than rumors, it seems." I rub my eyes. "Someone put doxies in my trunk."

"Doxies?" Neville says. "Ouch, and I guess you didn't have any antidote on hand."

"I think someone was trying to kill me," I say, lowering my voice.

"Harry, that's just paranoid," Hermione says. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Well, I can think of some who might," Neville says softly. "But doxies? That seems an unlikely means."

"I'm not so sure," I say, shaking my head.

Maybe they're right. Maybe I _am_ just being paranoid. But I think I'd rather be paranoid and alive. I'm not going to survive very long by being careless, and it's entirely likely that there _are_ people wanting me dead, whether my former followers seeking revenge upon their master's vanquisher, or vigilantes suspecting that I'm the next or previous Dark Lord for one reason or another.

* * *

There aren't many students staying at Hogwarts for the winter break, but I'm certainly not going back to the Muggles for holiday. I try to make arrangements to spend the holiday with a friend's family, but I don't have much luck with that either.

"Sorry, Harry, Gran says no," Neville tells me.

"My mum's having a big party and is sending me to the Parkinsons' place, myself," Blaise says.

"My dad's not really wanting to celebrate anything, I don't think," Theodore says.

"I think my family was hoping for a nice, private Christmas," Hermione says.

"You can't be serious," Draco says, before remembering that he's supposed to be being friendly toward me. "Um. Well, I'll ask my father, I suppose."

A few days later, Draco gets a positive response, and I can't help but grin with delight. This could be a good opportunity to cement some alliances, gain access to the Malfoys' dark artifacts, maybe even locate the diary Horcrux that I'd entrusted to Lucius and make sure that it's still safe. I'd already checked the Room of Requirement, and Ravenclaw's diadem is still safely tucked away there, but I'm not sure about my other ones.

Dumbledore has other ideas, and he doesn't even bother to tell me himself, but sends McGonagall to talk to me. "I'm afraid we can't allow you to spend the winter holidays with the Malfoys."

"I don't see what business it is of yours," I say. "You're not even my head of house."

"I am still the deputy headmistress," McGonagall says, looking at me sternly through her little glasses. "You would do well to show some respect for the school staff."

I snort softly. "Aside from that, I don't see how the school staff can dictate what I do when I'm not actually in school."

"It's for your own safety, I hope you understand," McGonagall says. "Perhaps you don't realize that Lucius Malfoy was one of You-Know-Who's supporters in the last war, and only avoided going to prison by claiming that he had been controlled with the Imperius Curse."

"I am aware of that," I reply curtly. "And I do not appreciate your insinuations about my friend's family. And isn't Mr. Malfoy on the Hogwarts Board of Governors?"

"Regardless, it would be safest for you to remain at school when you are not with your family," McGonagall says.

"Didn't you tell me I wouldn't have to go back to the Dursleys?" I retort.

"After discussing the matter with Dumbledore, we determined that you would need to return there for the summer."

"Seriously?" I say incredulously. "You _know_ what they did to me."

"There are, however, certain protections there that will protect you from any of You-Know-Who's followers," McGonagall insists.

I growl softly. "And what will protect me from the Dursleys?" I turn toward the door, not trusting myself to hold back my rage for a moment longer and silently adding her name to the list of those to kill. "I will remain at Hogwarts for this holiday. But you _cannot_ force me to stay at the Dursleys' house short of using magic against me."

I storm out of McGonagall's office and make my way to dungeons, seething as I go. When I step into the Slytherin common room, Draco looks up at me and asks, "What did McGonagall want? You look like you're about ready to kill someone."

"I'm going to kill McGonagall _and_ Dumbledore," I mutter barely loud enough for him to hear. "I'm staying at Hogwarts this holiday."

"I see," Draco says neutrally, eyes widening. "I'm sure my father will be very disappointed that you won't be joining us."

Maybe McGonagall is even right. Maybe Lucius _would_ try to harm me in some way. I might wind up having to reveal myself to him, and he may not even believe me. It would indeed be safer to stay at Hogwarts, and I suppose I can take advantage of this opportunity to do a little research of my own here.

* * *

I'm alone in my dorm room come Christmas morning. If I were more sentimental, this might bother me more. As it is, I'm content enough with it. I'm surprised at the number of presents waiting for me at the foot of my bed. The house-elves must have brought them in and laid them out while I was asleep.

There's a homework planner from Hermione, candy from Neville, a wand holster from Draco, a pair of dragonhide boots from Blaise, and... what's this? An invisibility cloak, with an anonymous note? It belonged to my father -- James Potter, I mean. So who sent this? Was it Remus Lupin, or Dumbledore? Must be Dumbledore. The mysterious vagueness is more his schtick.

Well, an invisibility cloak will certainly come in handy for wandering the castle at night and avoiding getting caught while doing so, although I have to wonder why Dumbledore would encourage me to do so. He's probably got some vague, mysterious plot going on. I don't trust him for a moment.

Still wondering what Dumbledore's playing at, I head out that night to poke around the castle. In an otherwise empty classroom, I find a large mirror standing off to one side of the room. Curiously, I go over to take a look, although wary for some sort of magical trap. Making sure that there's no one else around to see, I slip off the invisibility cloak and go to stand in front of the mirror.

Gazing into the silvered glass, I see a reflection, not of Harry Potter, but of Voldemort -- tall, pale skin, red eyes, a snake-like visage. Letting out a small squeak, I dive to the side and bury my face in my hands on the floor, heart pounding and panting heavily. After taking several deep breaths, I try to calm myself that no one else is here. No one else saw what was reflected in that mirror. I don't know exactly what sort of magical artifact it is, but it must be something that shows one's true or inner nature. I've heard of things like that before.

"Harry, my boy," says Dumbledore's voice from the darkness, and he lets down a disillusionment charm and approaches me. "What did you see that terrified you so?" he asks in concern.

My heart sinks into a heavy pit in my stomach, before realizing that by the question, he must not have seen the image himself. He doesn't know my secret. But perhaps he placed this mirror here and gave me this cloak to try to lead me here into revealing myself?

"What _is_ this mirror?" I wonder, not answering him. I slowly climb to my feet again and try to regain some measure of dignity, but pointedly refuse to look at Dumbledore, instead examining the mirror.

"It's called the Mirror of Erised," Dumbledore explains, then points to an engraving at the top of the mirror. " _I show not your face but your heart's desire_. Wizards have wasted away their lives pining away for the promises of the Mirror of Erised, but it is only an image of what we wish to be, without substance or reality."

"Did you follow me here, or were you waiting to see if I would come here?" I demand.

Dumbledore holds up his hands. "I merely wished to see what you would do with your father's cloak, and keep an eye out for you to make sure that you were safe. Forgive an old man's curiosity."

I grumble a little, but I suppose I can't argue too much about it. He did give it to me, after all. I just hope he doesn't make it a habit of snooping around at me. I also can't ascribe too much innocence to him, and suspect that he _did_ arrange things to try to see what I would truly desire, even if the mirror doesn't do what I suspected at first.

"I did not intend to reveal myself, but I was concerned by your reaction to the mirror," Dumbledore goes on.

After a long moment, I say, "I'll tell you what I see if you tell me what _you_ see."

Dumbledore replies after a pause, "I see myself holding a nice, warm pair of socks. You can never have too many socks, after all."

I snort softly, not believing that for an instant. "In that case, I see my parents standing behind me, looking proud of me. And the sight of it spooked me." I give him a hard look, staring pointedly at his nose rather than looking him in the eyes, daring him to challenge my words.

Dumbledore stares at me for a good long moment, and I can hardly hold my ground against him. I want to run away and hide somewhere that I can be safe long enough to recover my full power, and then _kill_ him. But as it stands right now, I'm just afraid that he might get a thread of Legilimency through anyway, or realize that I'm not what I appear to be somehow.

"I see," Dumbledore says finally. "I am certain that your parents are already proud of you, my dear boy. Now, why don't you put that magnificent cloak back on and get back to your dormitory and get some rest?"

I give a small smirk, and say, "Yes, sir."

Cloak placed around me again, I return to the Slytherin common room, and sit down in front of the fireplace rather than head to my dorm room immediately. I stuff the cloak into my bag and gaze sourly into the fire. What is Dumbledore trying to do? If he just wanted to glean some insight into my character, there were certainly easier ways to go about it. I might have never stumbled upon that room, after all. Unless...

I pull out the cloak again and examine it closely, but if Dumbledore cast any compulsions on it, my eleven-year-old senses can't pick them out of the inherent magical properties of the object. Grumbling, I shove it back in. I'd really like to get it checked over closely, but it's probably already too late, and just touching it might have triggered whatever he put on it. And I don't trust anyone enough to do it anyway.

Clenching my fists in quiet rage, I wonder how long it will be before I'm powerful enough to challenge Dumbledore. Maybe an assassination is in order. Some rare poison in his tea or something. That'd serve him right, and get him out of my hair for good.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Maybe it really _was_ just a coincidence. But I don't trust that thought for a moment.


End file.
